She had not realized how her blank walls and pale sheets were so lacking.
Reds, purples, the green of living plants that were no more.
Fortifying herself with another sip of honest to God wine, she turned, feeling a real skirt swish around her knees, and decided to wrap it up. “Where are you going to do it?”
How indulged he looked. Every bit the pirate king on his stolen throne. “Do what, Eugenia?”
“Rub my feet. As per our agreement.”
And he laughed again, understanding he’d lost her word game. Setting down his glass on a pristine coffee table, standing to remind her how much larger he was.
The jaw, the cheekbones, the lips, the hair.
Rouge pirate through and through.
“Anywhere you want it.”
Considering all the fun she might have at his expense if he played along, she batted her eyelashes. “Anywhere?”
Yet he was already th
ere, toying with curls Joan had spent ages battling into submission for Eugenia’s special night. “Right here will do.”
“You said I got to pick.” It was a half-complaint as he brought them both down to soft carpet.
Thumb pads to her insoles, he said, “You took too long.”
Jesus Christ was he either gifted with fingers from the gods, or she was literally that in need of human touch. Groaning, her head fell back.
For an hour, she endured the best foot rub known to womankind. Utterly brazen in her groans, happy enough to fall asleep on soft, clean carpet.
Distraught to wake in a strange bed, the arm and leg of a man she hated weighing her down.
Breaking his own rules, because where their feet tangled, her skin was bare.
Since the sun was up, her duty was done, and she didn’t have to stand for this. Moving out of his arms, she scampered for the door—the unlocked door—like a complete coward.
***
“Did he do that tongue thing?”
Noodles today. Handmade by Chloe, the same woman who struck up a conversation all the other women must have all shared in the past.
“No.” Eugenia didn’t have a thing for the rugged, evil type who traded in human currency.
“Please, sweetie, you don’t have to pretend here. We’ve all fucked him dozens of times. The first time, you always get the tongue thing. A glass of wine. What music did he have on?”
“PJ Harvey.”
Slurping up a noodle, Chloe asked, “Who’s that?”
“It doesn’t matter.” And it didn’t. It never would again.
Prepping another bite of good noodles in bad broth, Chloe said, “Just do the week. Let him tie you up if that makes it easier. Let him fuck you a little too hard. And move on. It’s only six more days.”
“You have got to fucking be kidding me…” Bondage was his thing? How cliché for a pirate.
“He really didn’t fuck you.” And the whole table, Joan included, stared.